


All and Sundry

by j_quadrifrons



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Other, Public Library AU, Queerplatonic Relationships, a little jongerry if you squint, and featuring Simon Fairchild as A Menace, fond bickering, hobbit birthday party 2020, including a brief cameo by Georgie Barker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24724522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_quadrifrons/pseuds/j_quadrifrons
Summary: Minific written for my birthday, June 2020, in response to prompts from friends & followers. Mostly good feelings, maybe a hint of sadness once or twice. Ships in chapter titles.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas, Peter Lukas/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	1. soft petermartin for fatal_drum

**Author's Note:**

> "He gave away presents to all and sundry – the latter were those who went out again by a back way and came in again by the gate." Since I am a Hobbit, I give presents to others on my birthday. Thanks to everyone who sent prompts!

It isn’t that he likes Peter. Peter’s a monster made out of loneliness; he’s definitely killed more people in the Institute than Elias ever did, in spite of his defense that it’s not technically murder; he’s a terrible boss. Unfortunately he’s also sympathetic, charming, and sometimes extremely funny.

(Also painfully good-looking, though that’s not necessarily a point in his favor, since the people Martin’s attracted to have an unfortunate tendency to be kind of horrible in the personality department.)

So it’s definitely not because he likes Peter that Martin finds himself adjusting his day to make Peter’s life a little easier. It’s habit, that’s all; he’s always been someone who cares about other people’s comfort, and anyway, it’s his job, isn’t it? An assistant it supposed to make their boss’s life easier. That’s why he tweaked the reception schedule so there’s nobody there when Peter comes back from his morning stroll. And why he set up a mailing list with the people he knows in every department in the Institute who know all the gossip and will casually warn him about any potential problems before they make it to Peter’s ears. Why he’s switched almost entirely to working off paper printouts, just because Peter won’t touch a computer.

The fact that Peter is apparently happy to do no useful work at the Institute and would, if those little inconveniences weren’t taken care of, simply never show up, is – irrelevant, surely.

(He has no defense for the half-finished diary of a merchant marine, last entry dated 1942, that he purchased from eBay and left on Peter’s desk; he saw it and he thought Peter would like it, that’s all. He’s always been good at gifts. Habit.)

It doesn’t occur to Martin until much, much later that Peter spending more time at the Institute, and around Martin, is probably not contributing to his loneliness and therefore he ought to be suspicious of it. He barely notices the way that trying to navigate the narrow gap between Peter being too charming to tolerate and too annoying to stand means that he doesn’t have time to fret about anything (or anyone) else. And if he’s a little addicted to the warm glow he feels when Peter congratulates him on a job well done, well, that’s an old habit, one he’s been trying without success to rid himself of for years.

And when one day Peter punctuates one of those complements by leaning down and kissing him, slow and deep, Martin kisses back out of habit, too. Really, what else is he supposed to do? It’s not as if he can file a sexual harassment complaint, HR doesn’t deserve that. Think of the paperwork.

(When he reels Peter back in for a second kiss, though, Martin will admit that’s curiosity. He’s never seen Peter flustered before and he wants to see how much further the flush on his cheeks will go. But, well, Peter keeps saying that Martin is touched by the Beholding, so he figures no one can blame him for a little curiosity.)


	2. soft martinelias for EnzymaticWitch

“Elias, what the hell?”

Elias smiles to himself. If he brings up the fact that it wasn’t two weeks ago that he got a stern lecture about how sneaking up on someone when they’re working is “creepy” and “inappropriate,” he won’t get to hear what else his delightfully indignant assistant has to say, so he’ll just have to enjoy this one by himself. He carefully drops the smile before he looks up, the very picture of helpful curiosity. “Yes, Martin? Is there a problem?”

Martin glares. It’s a little like being menaced by a kitten that’s more fluff than cat. “Why am I spending my Friday afternoon making hotel reservations for Simon Fairchild?”

The smile slips out then. Elias had a little bet going with himself about how long it would take Martin to put together the pieces; as usual, he’s lost. He imagines that someday Martin will manage to disappoint him, but it seems unlikelier by the day.

“I thought you’d appreciate the opportunity,” he says. “You are always complaining about the ambiguity of the Institute’s relationship with our donors. And I know I can’t rely on anyone else to take every eventuality into consideration.” To pay any attention to how many hotel staff Simon is likely to make off with, he means; it’s a point even he fails to consider sometimes, but they are rapidly running out of central London hotels that both suit Simon’s frankly decadent tastes and won’t turn the man away at the door.

It’s tremendous fun watching Martin pretend he isn’t flattered to be singled out in such a way, even after all this time. For such an accomplished liar he never seems to know what to do with his face. Finally he scowls down at Elias and mutters, “As long as I don’t have to meet him there.”

“Not without me there,” Elias agrees. There are limits, after all, and Simon has wandering hands. Martin looks somewhat mollified. “Still all right for dinner at eight?” he asks, mostly just to see the blush stain Martin’s cheekbones.

“I – yeah, all right. If my boss doesn’t need me to work late.” He grumbles, but he also leans in for a kiss, which Elias is all too happy to deepen just past the point of appropriateness for two in the afternoon in the office.

“Scandalous of him,” Elias says when he finally lets go, breathing the words against Martin’s lips. “I’ll have to have a word.”

Martin startles himself with a laugh.


	3. soft peterjon for anne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to imagine this taking place in the same universe as the previous martinelias; I certainly do.

“Finished bothering Elias for the day, have you?” Jon asks dryly before the fog has even properly settled into a human form.

“Not quite,” Peter says cheerfully. “But he won’t skip his meetings, and the Archives are always quiet.”

“Until you show up,” Jon mutters, but it doesn’t have the venom in it that it could have. Besides, an interruption isn’t wholly unwelcome. It isn’t a recording day, and he’s not getting anywhere with this collection of old inventory checklists; it’s probably time to try another approach.

He’s sweeping his notes and files back into their respective folders – he doesn’t think there’s any danger in Peter catching a glimpse of twenty-year-old paperwork from Artefact Storage, but a little caution never hurts – when he starts at a warm arm wrapped around his shoulders and a kiss pressed to the top of his head. “Such a diligent little Archivist,” Peter murmurs into his ear. “Elias must be very proud.”

Jon slumps back against him, leaning his head back to rest on Peter’s broad chest. “You’re just pleased I’m not running around with bags full of explosives,” he says (filing away that “little” for an argument for another time), mostly because he still has difficulty fathoming what exactly keeps drawing Peter back here, if it isn’t paranoia about Gertrude Robinson’s successor.

“That does sound very dangerous,” Peter agrees. “Best to avoid that sort of thing.” He rests his chin on the top of Jon’s head, which ought to be annoying. Instead it feels rather like watching a blinding storm through a window: utterly cut off from the outside world, but safe.

He fights to keep his eyes open. He’s going to maintain some level of professionalism, dammit, even if no one else seems to. “Are you going to let me get back to work?” he asks, in lieu of actually doing anything to try to dislodge the man. Peter hums noncommittally. Jon sighs, and resigns himself to a mid-afternoon nap.


	4. jonmartin caretaking for cuttooth

“Honestly, Jon, I’m fine,” Martin protests as Jon settles a second quilt over his huddled form. “It’s a bit of a cold, I’ve dealt with much worse on my own.”

“Martin,” Jon says, stern enough that Martin looks up at him wide-eyed and flushed. (The flush might be the on-and-off fever he’s been fighting for the past two days, but then again, given the way he usually reacts to Jon’s scolding tone, it might not.) “Do you remember the time I came in to work with the flu, and you bullied me into taking a nap, and I didn’t get up for two days?”

“I’ve never bullied you into anything,” Martin mumbles, which is a lie, but one Jon is willing to let slide. Martin’s not well, after all. “Wait, is this revenge? Revenge caretaking?” He’s perked up a bit at the idea and he looks, frankly, delighted.

Jon sighs. “If it’ll get you to hold still for it.” Martin’s reply is cut off by a cough, one that starts off weak and then settles in. Jon finds himself kneeling beside the sofa, hand on Martin’s back, sitting with him through it. “Just – let me do this, please?” he asks, his voice gone soft with worry. “I know you can take care of yourself but you shouldn’t have to, not when you feel this miserable.”

Martin resettles himself under the blankets and gives a weak smile. “All right, then,” he says, “so long as you don’t try to murder me with soup.”

“That was one mistake,” Jon protests, but he presses a kiss to Martin’s forehead before he gets up. It’s too warm, but he knew that already, it isn’t really something else to worry about. He worries anyway, just a little, as he makes a cup of tea loaded down with lemon and honey for Martin, and another slightly less heavily doctored for himself.

By the time he’s done, Martin is already asleep, slumped across the arm of the sofa with his mouth slightly open and the blankets tucked up under his chin. Jon briefly considers waking him, but he can’t convince himself it’s worth it. He can always make more tea. Instead he tucks an extra throw pillow behind Martin’s neck and settles back down on the floor next to the sofa to nurse his tea and watch over Martin until he needs something.


	5. Gerry for MadMaudLingoes

Gerard doesn’t smile very often. It doesn’t suit his aesthetic, Gertrude supposes, because in spite of the dour expression and the over-reliance on black as an artistic statement, he’s really quite the optimist. No matter how much he complains – and he does, constantly – he never turns down an opportunity to help some unfortunate soul who’s run afoul of one of the entities or their servants. He doesn’t always take the same glee in doing so that he does in destroying Leitners, but that’s probably to be expected.

She did promise Eric that she’d look after the boy, after all, so long as he didn’t turn out too much like his mother. Instead he’s turned out to be perhaps a little too much like his father: a little less transfixed by those who bear power, perhaps, but still entirely too trusting. Not that he’ll listen to her about anything on the subject; the best she can do is set an example.

Which is why, when she catches him one day sharing a cigarette with one of the junior researchers near the courtyard entrance, Gertrude turns her best disapproving glare on both of them. The junior researchers are harmless, more a danger to themselves than anything, but Gerard should know better than to make more connections with the Institute than absolutely necessary.

The researcher, dark-eyed young man who is trying very hard to look significantly older than his age, turns away from both of them and begins to make his excuses, but Gerard just waves cheekily and says something reassuring that she’s too far away to hear. The researcher gives Gerard a wry smile and takes the cigarette from him, and even as he snatches up his battered old bookbag and strides across the courtyard to join her, the smile Gerard wears is unfamiliar and deeply genuine.

Gertrude smothers the little flicker of regret that accompanies her reminder to him about the dangers of bringing himself to Elias’s attention. Neither of them have ever prioritized personal happiness, after all, and this is no time to start.


	6. public library AU for sazandorable

Martin doesn’t have to see Simon coming through the door; he can hear him as soon as he’s within a dozen feet of the building. It’s not much of a warning, but it’s enough. He ducks out of the desk and starts scouring the floor for his coworkers. Sasha is off helping Peter with his email, so that’s a no-go; she’ll be there for an hour. Basira went to lunch twenty minutes ago, so she won’t be back in time either (and even if she was, she has an uncanny ability to disappear whenever their most annoying regulars make an appearance). Martin discards the idea of calling for a supervisor as soon as it occurs; no uncomfortable social situation has ever been improved with the addition of Jonathan Sims, and if Jon makes himself scarce the only other manager in the building is Elias, and that would be somehow even worse.

He grabs Tim on the edge of the Young Adult section, ducking behind a display of vampire novels so he won’t be seen. “Oh no,” Tim says before Martin can open his mouth. “I’m a children’s librarian. I deal with children. Simon Fairchild is the opposite of children.”

“Do you know how long he talked to me about E.L. James last week?” Martin hisses. “Do you know?”

“It’s your fault for telling him about fanfiction,” Tim says. Simon is leaning on his cane at the reference desk, waiting patiently for someone to help him. They both shuffle a little further behind the shelves. If Jon comes out now, he’s going to be in all kinds of trouble.

“I’ll swap you a Saturday,” Martin says. Tim gives him a skeptical look. “This Saturday. And I’ll do your reports.”

Tim narrows his eyes, but he sighs. “All right. Fine. But if he doesn’t like my suggestions I’m giving him your email.”

It’s not ideal, but that’s a problem for next week. “Thank you,” he says fervently. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Martin waits until Tim is engaged in an uncomfortably loud conversation with Simon about what he’s been reading (he’s pretty sure Simon isn’t actually hard of hearing, despite his age, but that’s not the kind of thing you can just accuse someone of) before sneaking up to the circulation desk. From here he can at least pretend to be doing something, and he’s close to the staff door in case Simon turns this way.

Georgie offers him her stash of chocolates, and he snags a caramel. “Good escape,” she says.

“Thanks,” Martin acknowledges. “Could you call the desk in a couple of minutes? I don’t want Tim to get trapped there.”

She grins and offers him a mock salute. “No worries. If you want to make a break for it now, I think the copier needs paper.”

Martin flees.


	7. jonmartim for HP

Jon goes up the stairs when he hears the shower come on, clicking off lights as he goes. The sheets are already halfway tangled in a pile in the middle of the bed; he snorts fondly and bundles them into a corner. He takes his time replacing them with fresh ones, changing out pillowcases, straightening out corners. Tim makes fun of him for it (“we’re just going to get right back in and mess it up again, what’s the point?”) but but Jon has always liked the soothing, repetitive nature of housework. It feels like he’s contributing something.

Martin reemerges first, dressed in boxers and a pink and blue t-shirt that says “Self Made Man” across the chest. He’s nearly sleepwalking already but he lights up when he sees Jon, and Jon swallows the way that still makes his stomach turn over pleasantly by wrapping his arms around him. Martin leans his forehead on Jon’s shoulder with a contented sigh, and Jon nuzzles his damp hair affectionately. “Worn out?”

“Mmmm.” Martin shows no sign of moving on his own, so Jon tugs him slowly toward the bed where the covers are already turned down and nudges him to sit, dropping a kiss on his forehead when he does. Martin tilts his face up for a proper kiss, and Jon can’t help but indulge him.

They’re still kissing softly, though Jon has climbed practically into Martin’s lap for convenience’s sake, when the water finally shuts off and Tim returns, flushed and pink from the heat. “I’m amazed he hasn’t fallen asleep on you yet, I had to save him from drowning twice,” he says cheerfully, but then he yawns expansively and flops down on the bed, starfishing his limbs in all directions. “More room for me, I guess.”

Martin mumbles something into Jon’s mouth before remembering that he’ll have to get some distance in order to make himself heard. “M'just being appreciative.”

Tim’s eyeroll is audible. “Yes, you haven’t seen Jon for a whole two hours, I know you go into withdrawal. C'mere.” Tim snags Jon by the wrist and tugs him down abruptly beside him, and Jon barely has to fake a scowl in the face of his triumphant grin. “Have a nice evening, boss?”

“Very,” Jon says primly, “until you started manhandling me. And I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Tim says, yawning again. Jon gives up – it’s an argument he’s never going to win, though he doesn’t intent to stop trying – and settles down with his head on Tim’s arm. The bed shifts as Martin curls up on his other side, pulling the blankets up over all three of them and groping for the bedside light. They’re always the first to fall asleep on nights like this, but Jon doesn’t mind spending an hour or two like this, wrapped up warm and protected between the two men that he loves.


	8. Alfred Breekon fixit for Rozzlynn

Contrary to his usual habits, Alfred Breekon takes a seat on the train instead of leaving it for someone who might need it more. His brother had suggested that making a statement to the Magnus Institute would be freeing, but although he does feel that he’s left something there, he doesn’t think it’s the fear that plagues him. That seems…even sharper, just now, for having been laid out in detail, explained and dissected.

He looks up from his hands, twisting together in unconscious worry, to see a slim, frail woman leaning heavily on a young boy who’s not nearly tall enough to do her any good. She isn’t old, but she’s clearly ill, and the stab of guilt pierces through all Alfred’s self-obsessed worries. He shoves himself to his feet, grasping quickly at a hanging strap to keep from embarrassing himself, and gestures to the seat. “Please.”

The woman looks him up and down; the boy looks up at him with awe and trepidation. Then she nods and sits down, very carefully. “Thank you,” she says, “Mr…”

“Breekon,” he answers automatically, surprised. You don’t talk to people on the tube, that’s not what it’s for. But the woman smiles at him then, and it transforms her face. For the first time she looks young enough that he’s sure the boy is her son, although he doesn’t look anything like her. “My pleasure, missus…”

She chews her lip for a second, then says firmly, “Blackwood.” The boy leans closer to her, and she squeezes his hand, although she’s still looking straight at Alfred.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, and he’s surprised to find he means it.

When he returns to the depot, the box is still sitting in the middle of his desk, just as it has for days, the ominous “Return to Sender” stamped over the complete lack of address to return to. There’s a boxcutter on the desk next to it; he’s taken it out and put it away so many times now. Alfred lays a hand on the box, thumbing at the paper tape that seals it. He thinks about writing down his statement in the too-bright reading room of the Magnus Institute library; he thinks about Mrs. Blackwood smiling at him on the train. “Right,” he says to himself, and he puts the boxcutter back in the drawer, and instead pulls out a lighter.

The box burns quickly, and he doesn’t wait around to see if it takes anything else with it.


	9. qpp/rom/friendship daisyjonmartin for hiri

Daisy sprawls down on the sofa with a relieved sigh, glad to finally be able to stop moving. “There had better be popcorn that tastes like popcorn,” she calls out, because she could start to smell a cloying mix of cinnamon and sugar when she was still in the shower. There always is, of course, but it’s never a bad time to needle Jon about his sweet tooth. She drapes her arms over the back of the sofa, stretching out sore muscles.

“You say that like I’m torturing you with it,” Jon grumbles as he tucks himself in beside her. There’s a warm weight in her lap, and she opens her eyes to scrutinize the huge bowl of popcorn drenched in butter. When she’s convinced it’s acceptable, she gives him a thumbs up, and he rolls his eyes.

Martin deposits the drinks on the coffee table – a pitcher of whatever he’s been experimenting with for the two of them; a couple of beers for Jon, who’s learned better than to try to keep up with them, especially when Martin’s mixing the drinks – and studies the remaining space on the sofa with a frown. There’s room on either side, but that’s not his problem. His problem is that he’s much rather watch a movie with Jon resting his head on his shoulder, but if he’s all the way over there, he has no access to the good popcorn. Daisy wraps her arm around the bowl and smirks at him.

He settles for sitting on the floor, leaning back against both their legs, which Daisy has to admit is a decent compromise. Jon is wriggled forward on the sofa so that he can run his hands through Martin’s hair, which leaves him leaning comfortably against Daisy’s shoulder. She wraps an arm around him without thinking; it’s good, after spending all day on guard against her own reactions around strangers, to be able to relax.

Jon and Martin are bickering gently about each other’s taste in films, which really aren’t compatible at all; Daisy digs into a handful of popcorn and lets the sound of their affectionate banter drown out whatever they’re actually saying. She doesn’t care what they watch, that’s not why she’s here. Eventually they’ll settle on something, and before the end credits Jon will be mostly asleep on her shoulder, and Martin will fuss very gently over him, and Jon will pretend to object when Martin picks him up to carry him off to bed, and she’ll sleep on the unspeakably large couch that none of them would admit that they bought because all three of them could sleep on it at once if they tried, and in the morning she’ll make a huge breakfast that really only she will eat but the boys will both be grateful for anyway. It’s good to know how things are going to go, to have that predictability. Nothing to chase down, nothing to run from. No need to hole up anywhere alone.


End file.
